


Carmine

by seventeensteps



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-27 11:26:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13247256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventeensteps/pseuds/seventeensteps
Summary: cookies and cream, cats, and cherry kisses





	Carmine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leadsan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leadsan/gifts).



> So... here comes 'sw modern au where i apparently don't know what i'm doing' again.  
> My apologies for that.
> 
> Annnnd hey leadsan, thank you for always telling and encouraging me to write. This thing wouldn't exist without you.

So he may have breathed a little too hard, and held the strap hanging from the metallic rail a little too tight, but a _normal_ person did not just _verbally_ ask a stranger whether he was all right.

This small man with red, autumn hair obviously didn't fall into that category.

He planned to just ignore the guy -- who was wearing a gray three-piece suit which looked so out of place in this tinfoil train -- and focus on getting the hell off this train as fast as possible, so Ben kept his mouth shut, and checked the screen again for the next stop. One more. He didn’t have to give a fuck about this weird stranger. It wasn’t like they’d see each other again anyway.

But for some screwed up reasons, the man sighed, and handed him a drop of Hershey's Kiss. “Eat it.” He unwrapped one and put it into his mouth. “Cookies and Cream.”

He didn’t know whether it was because he was confused or had no self-preservation, or just simply because he liked Cookies and Cream, but Ben just stared at the guy, and did as told.

“You’re welcome.” The man smirked.

Ben glanced at the door. “This is my stop,” he heard himself say.

“I know a place here. It’s quiet,“ he said, following him onto the platform, “and nice.”

Ben stopped, baffled at the balls of this man. A woman tsked as she bumped into his back and quickly pushed past him up the stairs. “I haven’t agreed to go anywhere with you.”

“Come on,” he said, looking at his watch, and walked past him toward the exit. “Drinks are on me. And hey,” he turned around, “on a cold night like this, only a kiss wouldn’t be enough.”

Ben didn’t want to admit, but the sweet taste on his tongue and the heat in his ears really made him forget why he had wanted to go home so much. This couldn’t hurt, surely.

Just as he was going to move, the man, who was now looking down at him from the exit, with artificial lights in different colors dancing back and forth on his pale face, said, “You seem lost. Do you need me to hold your hand?”

“Shut up,” Ben said, and walked up toward him.

  
  


It turned out the “nice, quiet place” the man had suggested was the one he walked past every morning and night but never got in. Ben didn’t really appreciate other people’s company when it came to drinking, or anything at all for that matter.

Today was a little different.

The red-headed man walked through the door and like he owned the place, and sat himself and Ben down at the bar. “One of your vintage 1967, please,” he told the bartender, then turned to face Ben.

“Vodka on the rocks,” he said, and frowned when the other man quirked one of his neatly-trimmed eyebrow at him. “What?”

“Oh, nothing.” He looked at his phone, locked it, and put it away. He wouldn’t notice them from far away, but this close, Ben noted the length of his pale lashes. “Just unusual,” he murmured, glancing at Ben, soft, warm light reflecting off his green eyes, and Ben felt like running away. Their drinks were served, and the man, with long, elegant fingers, picked up his glass, twisted his wrist, and touched the tip of his nose into the air above the deep red liquid.

Ben picked up his glass, and drank all of it in one go. He held up his index finger, and then pointed at his empty glass, mouth crunching on the ice. His mother always told him to quit that habit, and he wanted to, but he couldn’t, or maybe he hadn’t tried hard enough. Ben heard a pleased sigh, and saw the man set his wine glass down.

He rested his right elbow on the countertop, and turned his body to face Ben. “How are you?”

He looked at various bottles of alcohol that lined across the shelves, and then back at the other man. He actually felt less shitty than before. So he drank his refilled glass of vodka, and said, smiling a little, “You’re paying for this, right?”

The corner of those thin lips curved up a little. “I always follow through.”

“Great.” He signaled the bartender to fill his glass again, and turned toward the person next to him. “So what do you want, redhead.”

Said redhead sipped his drink. “Here’s the deal,” he said, pale eyes calm and resolute, “I want you to come and work for me.”

Ben stared at him, and felt his jaw harden. He swallowed, trying not to look at the door, or anywhere else except in front of him. So it was all about business. “I already have a job. Not interested.” He could feel his ear heating up.

The man exhaled softly, looking away for a moment, and Ben couldn’t tell what he was actually thinking. His face held no emotion when he looked at him again “Consider this… part-time. You can tell me your schedule and I’ll organize everything.”

“You.” Ben cut himself off. “What do you want me to do anyway?”

The guy didn’t miss a beat. “Be the model in my newest ads for _Christie’s_.”

“What?” That name rang a bell, but he couldn’t place where it was from. “No.”

“Don’t be so quick. Think about pros and cons,” the redhead said, and maybe there was something in his tone, or accent -- crisp and admonishing -- because it sent Ben back to when he was twenty-two, hot-headed and rebellious, and yelling at his family. Though, now he was much older than that.

Ben wanted to refuse, just for the sake of it. He hated it when someone told him what to do, but he had learned the hard way that that had never furthered anyone’s argument. He drank again, the liquid burned all the way down, and looked at the other man.

“Think about your animal shelter, Ben Solo.”

That, however, felt like a splash of cold water to his face. He sat there for a moment, considering the possibilities. “Did you _stalk_ me?” His voice was quiet. “That train, wasn’t the first time you saw me, was it?”

“Should I call you Mr. Solo?”

“Don’t call me Solo.” He breathed.

“Ben, then.” The man quirked his light eyebrow, almost a question. “To answer your question, that was the first time I saw you, in person at least. A friend of mine referred you to me.”

He inhaled, and nodded. “That ads. What is it about?”

“It’s for _Christie’s_ ,” the man said like it should mean something. Probably did. His stubborn side, which was a big part of him, did not want to admit his ignorance to the man. The light-haired man blinked, and then beginning to smile. “I promise it’s not something outrageous. And you’ll need to come in for an audition anyway. So don’t worry.”

Ben grimaced and swallowed his vodka. He shook his head. “Your company, wherever that is, shouldn’t have sent you out for this... _little recruitment incident_.”

He did one of his little smiles and stood up. “My records are perfect, Benjamin. Think about it.” Producing a card from his pocket, he placed it in front of Ben. “Contact me by the end of this week if you’re interested, and I’ll send the details over.” His voice, sure and confident, encouraged this really strong urge in Ben to prove him wrong

“See you, Ben Solo.” Ben wanted to crumple that piece of paper and throw it at the guy’s head. “And have a good night,” he said, before turning back and striding toward the door. In a moment, he was gone.

Ben looked at the card again, then shoved it into his jeans pocket. He drank, and pretended to think about why he shouldn’t take that job. After awhile, he admitted that it was frustrating and pointless. He asked the bartender for his check, only to be reminded that everything he drank was already paid for.

For some reasons, that irritated him even more.

_Armitage Hux._

What an arrogant bastard.

  
  


Ben woke up the next day with a loud ringing in his ears and a throbbing sensation in his head, like someone was intent on continuously pounding a sledgehammer against his temples.

He rolled over and slapped his alarm clock. “Ugh.” _God_. Even his own voice hurt. He shouldn’t have drunk that much last night, all that vodka-

An image of red hair and gray suit flashed behind his closed eyelids. Oh, right. The man, ads, _Christie’s_.

 _Christie’s_.

He squinted against a thick ray of sunlight that squeezed itself inside through a gap between his dark curtains. Ben reached for his phone, and Googled the word.

 

_880,000,000 results (0.38 seconds)_

 

He tapped _Images_ , unintentionally holding his breath.

“Fuck,” he whispered. And then louder, “Fuck.”

Those search results consisted of the company’s logos, names, and some models. And _lipsticks_.

Ben scrolled down. He didn’t even know what he was hoping for, but rows after rows after rows, unending, colorful shades in sticks and other types of cosmetics were there to greet him.

But mostly, it was the lipstick.

His head _hurt_.

Ben really, really hated his life.

 


End file.
